Ineffable Husbands Week 2019
by gloriouscacophony
Summary: Short stories & drabbles written for Ineffable Husbands Week 2019, celebrating the long-lasting relationship between Heaven's worst angel, Aziraphale, and Hell's worst demon, Crowley. (See my AO3 for the NSFW stories: archiveofourown[dot]org/series/1481810)
1. Day 1: St Vitus

_Strasbourg, 1518_

Aziraphale tugged on his high collar, beginning to sweat beneath the heavy layers of clothes as the late July sun beat down on him. Normally, he'd have transported himself a little closer to the city center, but the faint presence of demonic influence around the area had led him to instead appear in the farmland nearby. And then a cow had tried to eat the feather off his hat. The whole experience made him long for the days of ancient Rome, where togas and robes were the style instead of these dreadful layers of hose and sleeves and doublets.

By the time he huffed and puffed his way to the edges of the city, he could already hear the chaos—shouts and scuffles and cries and, over it all, music: the reedy sounds of pipes and the deep, echoing vibration of drums. And then, before he reached the city center proper, he saw the first dancers.

A woman, being led by her somber-faced husband and children, her body swaying and limbs moving in graceful, sweeping motions. She didn't resist being led away, towards the city center. He followed her and her family to the large, open square at the center of town, where dozens of dancers welcomed her into their ranks (at least, the ones who were not yet exhausted and wan after days of unceasing movement).

Aziraphale stood watching for a few minutes before the incessant heat of the sun became too much. These Gothic buildings did lack good shade from the direct light overhead and also blocked any cool air from the nearby water. An inn or tavern could provide him with respite, and some information as well.

One of the taverns facing the square where the dancers were sequestered seemed to be doing a roaring trade, perhaps due to the very small (and quite crowded) upper-floor balconies, where locals and visitors alike could gawp at the afflicted.

Inside, it took some minutes for Aziraphale to get the bartender's attention, and he was dismayed to learn that he'd have to buy a drink to stay inside and ask nosy questions (as the bartender put it, with a slightly menacing air that said he'd had more than enough business for one day but wouldn't turn away profit). Sighing, Aziraphale performed a quick, discreet spell, then handed the man the coins.

"Here's yer drink, _monsieur_. Don't know much about all this, started a few weeks ago."

"Yes, and?" Aziraphale prodded, tentatively accepting the wine.

"And nothing. No one knows what's causing it, the dancing. Only once they start, they can't stop, and some of 'em in other towns have even started to travel. To keep 'em here, the emperor had the musicians come in, play music, but it's been weeks now and the music never stops. _Idiots sanglants…_"

The sound of something breaking at the far end of the counter pulls the bartender's attention, and he leaves Aziraphale alone with his wine. A delicate sniff deems it palatable, and Aziraphale has just taken a rather large swig (it had been dreadfully hot outside, after all) when he feels someone brush around him, and a cool breath at his ear.

"_Bonjour_, angel. Long time no see."

Aziraphale choked on the mouthful of wine, stopping just short of spitting it across the bar in surprise as he whirled to see… "Crowley! You startled me!." But his grin belies hist scolding tone as he looks the demon up and down. Of course, he's not sweating and groaning in the heat; Crowley always looks perfectly sheveled, even in the many layers this decade requires, the bastard.

"Have a drink with me, the wine's decent."

"I very much doubt anything you get here is decent. Have you seen those buggers outside? Hardly behaving _decently_."

Aziraphale had opened his mouth to reply, but a commotion at the far end of the room made it impossible to be heard. Looking around quickly, he spotted a fairly quiet corner with a fortunately empty table. Perhaps because there appears to be vomit or something spilled nearby, but a wave of his hand and the table is sparkling clean. They pushed their way through the crowd—apparently another person had fallen to dancing and was being corralled outside—to take a seat.

"Crowley, please don't tell me _you_ had anything to do with this." Another cup appears in his hand and he fills it, passing it to the demon who's sprawled, all pointy wrists and elbows, across the table.

"Nope, not me. Was in Paris and popped in to see what all the fuss is about. Just seems like a lot of peasants taking a load off, letting loose. Honestly," Crowley replied, after a sip of wine that evokes a grimace, "we kind of thought it was your lot. They're all calling whatever's happening 'Saint Vitus's Dance', you know."

"Hm, well, _I _haven't heard anything from Above. I was in Japan, enjoying some lovely _ujicha_ when they told me to come have a look," Aziraphale said with a slight pout at the wine. It really was quite terrible, especially compared to that tea. And making it appear wouldn't be the same. He'd still know it wasn't the genuine thing.

"I'm telling you, it's got to be some kind of hoax. It's all the latest fashion 'round these parts —anybody who's somebody is out there dancing 'til they drop," Crowley said, "And the worst part is none of the really _good_ dances have been invented yet. The ones where all the different bits touch and—"

"Yes, yes, all right," Aziraphale interjected, blushing furiously. "Well if it's a hoax or a trick or something, why are _we_ here?"

"No idea, angel. I just go where they send me, until they forget about me and I can go off to do what I want."

"Sounds about right," Aziraphale replied, looking down at his cup to see it was empty. Then, suddenly, it refilled, and he looked up to see Crowley waving his hand in a mocking bow. "Oh, thank you!"

"So," he said after he'd taken a large sip of wine (a much better wine, thankfully, than the cup's original contents), "what have you been up to? It's been, goodness, what, a few centuries?"

Over several more cups of wine (and another, real bottle purchased from the bartender to satisfy Aziraphale's slight guilt, even though he'd paid with more conjured coins), Crowley catches him up on his adventures since their brief encounter in Arthur's England and another, less confrontational meeting during the plague years. Mostly, performing small misdeeds to confuse and annoy the gentry and reward the peasantry, lots of boils and digestive issues and missing horses.

"Well, t-that does'n sound right!" Azirphale complained, hours later. "When you w're in Bristol?"

"'M telling you, angel," Crowley replied, equally sloshed and waving his noodly arms around for emphasis. "I saw 'm with my own eyes. Had to be 'm 'cause who else struts around like a great bloody git wi' that smug look, y'know the one…" Crowley, who's ditched his dark lenses for a moment, does his best to imitate Sandalphon's bulldog-like face wearing its usual beady-eyed look of superiority but, as Aziraphale points out in between deep belly laughs, only succeeds in looking quite constipated.

When the tavern shuts for the night and kicks them out, they stumble outside, laughing and using each other for balance, their latest bottle of wine almost empty in Aziraphale's hand. By firelight, the dancers are still moving to the sounds of drums and pipes, but more subdued now, as though the surrounding quiet has dulled their fervor for a time.

"Hey, hey, you gits! Shake a leg an' get moving, then! No rest for the wicked, eh?" Crowley shouts at them, snorting laughter as he leaned on Aziraphale, who has the presence of mind to attempt to hide his amusement behind a look of righteous disdain for the idiot demon beside him.

"R-really, Crowl'y, don't taunt the poor dears. They can' help it." He doesn't know where they're going as they leave the square and its inhabitants behind, but they arrive at the water's edge and plonk their corporations down on the dewy grass.

"Poor dears my left—ow, hey, tha' hurt!" Crowley rubs the tender skin on his neck where Aziraphale had pinched him, but the angel can see the mark is still there when the demon moves his hand away. Without thinking, Aziraphale leans in and presses his mouth to the mark. It fades into the pale skin, leaving only a small brown freckle behind.

When he pulls back, Crowley's serpentine eyes are wide behind his dark glasses, which have slid down the bridge of his nose, and his cheeks are ruddy from more than the heat of the wine.

"Ngk," he replies, so Aziraphale touches the tip of a finger to the spot, curious to see what Crowley will do if he runs it from the former mark down along his collar where lace meets doublet.

"Hrk," Crowley replies, looking down at the angel's hand where it rests on his collarbone. "What're you, stop that."

He tries to shrug Aziraphale's hand away, and the angel snorts indelicately before collapsing forward, planting his face into Crowley's chest as he dissolves into breathy giggles.

Crowley's blush deepens as he shoves the angel off of him into the grass, not ungently. "Geroff."

When Aziraphale has caught his breath, he wipes the tears of mirth from his eyes and looks up at Crowley, who's leaned back and turned his face to the blissfully cooler night air. "Ev'n if this was a wild goose chase, an' even if y'r my mortal enemy…" Aziraphale says, as the demon looks down at him with a slight frown, "'m glad to see you again."

"You too, angel," Crowley replies. "Now hand over tha' wine, iss my turn."


	2. Day 2: Respite

_John Wick crossover_

* * *

_But for now we stay so far  
__'Til our lonely limbs collide  
__I can't keep you in these arms  
__So I keep you in my mind_

—"_You and I (Stripped)", PVRIS_

They meet every so often at the Continental—usually in London, but in New York, Rome, and Paris occasionally. They're well-known to the staff and regulars, and for more than their professional efficiency.

Aziraphale pushes inside against the gusty wind, the collar of his pristine ivory car coat turned up against the downpour. It's a typical fall day in London, gloomy and damp, but the Continental's lobby is bright and inviting, a welcome sight after his latest assignment. He plonked one of his gold coins (embellished with a pair of wings, the sigil of his particular organization, The Archangels) and Charon greets him with a thin but pleased smile. The two share a fondness for collecting rare books, and often shared leads for a particular volume the other might be searching for.

"Hello, sir, it's a pleasure to see you again. Did you have any success with that bookseller in Italy?"

Aziraphale shrugs off his damp coat carefully, attempting to keep the rain from the polished marble floor. "Not yet. It's been a busy week, but I'm quite interested in that first edition Wilde you said he might have. Hopefully I'll have some time while I'm here to inquire." Charon hands him his room key (431—the concierge knows he prefers higher floors). "Is he here yet?"

"Waiting for you in the lounge. I'll have your things brought up to your room. Have a pleasant stay, sir."

"Thank you, Charon. How could I not, with such excellent service?"

Crowley's puffing away at a cigar when he arrives in the smoking lounge. The assassin is wearing an exquisitely luxurious smoking jacket in a deep burgundy, a rare deviation from what Aziraphale knows as his usual wardrobe of greys and blacks. A glass of bourbon (also an unusual choice for the man) sits on the small table beside his armchair. He's watching the rain pour in sheets down the floor-length glass windows, shrouded in a haze of fragrant smoke.

Before Aziraphale gets near, Crowley has already sensed him somehow. "Ah, hello angel. Fancy seeing you here. Have a seat, get a drink. No better place to be when it's raining cats and dogs."

Aziraphale meets the bartender's eyes, nodding that he wants his usual, and collapses into the other armchair with a sigh. "What a week. Feels like I haven't had the chance to just sit in ages."

Crowley's head flops over, the man watching him from behind his ever-present dark glasses.

"Are those new?"

"What, the glasses? Yeah, yeah, got 'em last month in...erm, Rome I think. Thought I'd mix things up with a tortoiseshell frame this time."

"Well, you look lovely. They suit you." The bartender deposits Aziraphale's cocktail (a Lady in Blue, a sweet blue concoction garnished with flower petals) on the table and slips away, deliberately not noticing the faint blush left along Crowley's cheeks by the compliment.

"Cheers, then." They clink their glasses together and sip, watching the rain in a companionable silence that's vastly different from the tense air that usually accompanies acquaintances in their profession, even here on neutral ground. (It's rare to form true friendships in their line of work, and neither would admit that that's what this is, but everyone who knows them can see.)

"Everything all right, then?" Aziraphale asks a dozen minutes later, when the lull of the rain and the strong drink and the plush rest of the armchair have eased the chill and stress from his bones.

"You know I can't talk about it," Crowley replies, feigning a laguid air as he puffs away at his cigar, making the coals glow at its end. But Aziraphale can read the stress in his posture, the falseness he can see right through after years of knowing the red-haired man.

"Ah, work then. I understand. Is there...anything I can do?" he says softly in concern.

"Nah, don't worry about it." They walk a thin line, and this is one of those things that reminds them both of their situation. As one of the Daemon, Crowle's...affinity for a certain Archangel is ignored, if not accepted, as long as it doesn't interfere with the job. The Archangels take a similar view of Aziraphale's fraternizing with a rival, and so they meet here, at the Continental, where there are no rival organizations, only elite professionals with a certain set of skills in seek of a civilized respite from the backstabbing and bloodshed.

They lapse back into a comfortable, companionable silence, at ease beside each other here as they cannot be anywhere else—or with anyone else.

The bar is almost empty when they say their good nights and stumble off to their rooms, at least for a few moments. It might be more practical to have adjoining suites, but Charon knows they find that arrangement too transparent, so he always gives them rooms directly above and below one another, Aziraphale always on the higher floor. Without asking, he knows Crowley is in 331, so when he's showered and dressed in his silk pajamas and pulled on a dressing gown and slippers, he pads down the carpeted hallway to the stairwell.

The door is unlocked, and Crowley is waiting at the window, watching the rain drizzle behind the tinted, bullet- and missile-proof glass. Up here, the sounds of late-night traffic are more audible than the ground floor, but muffled enough to serve as soothing background noise. Crowley has donned sleek black shorts that hug the sharp angles of his hips, and the short strands of his fiery hair are dark, still damp from his own shower. When Aziraphale pads up beside him, he smells of wood smoke and petrichor.

"Hello again, angel."

Aziraphale pats his arm fondly and sighs, kicking off his slippers and slipping out of his dressing gown as he stacks the pillows how he likes on the bed and leans against them. He's barely settles when Crowley slips over from the window and entwines around him, water-chilled skin shivering at the heat of his body. Aziraphale hums in contentment at the embrace, bringing a hand to ruffle through Crowley's hair and slide in reassuring, firm strokes across his back.

(They'd been doing this so long that neither could remember how it really started, but it had begun with late-night debates about music and handguns and plant care that had outlasted the bar's open hours, so they'd begun staying up later and later in one of their rooms to continue the conversation. And then one night, full of wine and mirth and exhausted by the mental and physical toll of their latest assignments, they'd collapsed in a pile on the floor of Aziraphale's room. Crowley had nearly died of embarrassment when they'd woke to find him tangled against Aziraphale's side, having instinctively sought the reassurance of his soft warmth in the night. They hadn't seen each other for months after that, but Aziraphale had gone to his room when they were both in Prague and pointedly wrapped his arms around Crowley as he made to leave for the night. Crowley had frozen in shock, then melted into the contact with a sound that revealed far too much about how touch-starved he was.)

Tonight, Aziraphale slips off his companion's glasses, and Crowley buries his head into the crook of the other man's neck, savoring the silken slide of the pajama shirt's collar and the floral scent of the Continental's soap. There's a thin white scar here, under Aziraphale's ear, made by an insane diplomat who'd gone rogue and kidnapped the children of several local political figures to use as leverage in his schemes for power. (Crowley had never been more fond of Aziraphale than when he heard the story. Although the diplomat's fate was far less pleasant than the reunion of the children with their distraught parents.)

"My dear," Aziraphale whispers, pressing his lips in the ghost of a kiss across Crowley's head, so much less than he wants to bestow but all he can give. They both know the consequences of the life they've chosen, and for now, this is all they can have: their nights in the Continental, stolen moments of joy amidst death and betrayal and machinations. They cannot trust or love, they think, but as much as either can, they have faith in each other.

Outside, the rainstorm slows to a drizzle, and soon Crowley is drifting to sleep, held close as Aziraphale adjusts the sheets over them and presses another kiss to his companion's face, serene in rest. In the morning, he'll slip away to his room to dress, pay a brief visit to peruse the Sommelier's latest wares, and depart, headed to an assignment in Oslo.

But for now, he cradles Crowley protectively, guarding a precious weight as he too sleeps, and dreams.


	3. Day 3: Wending Thy Way

_The ward of the barrow  
__I'll not flee from a foot-length,  
the foeman uncanny.  
__At the wall 'twill befall us as Fate decreeth  
_

—"_Beowulf"_

When you're the fifth angel son of a third son and a demon who hasn't manifested his powers, you're expendable. At least, that's what Aziraphale and Crowley assume when their parents pull them aside in the week before the selection ceremony to inform each of them that, after the unfortunate incidents during the last quest five years ago, their families will be submitting them as candidates for this year's quest. (They aren't allowed to fly to the mountains anyway, so Crowley's lack of wings won't be an issue.)

They haven't spoken to each other in years, since some vaguely remembered falling-out when they had just reached puberty, but they nod to each other in greeting as they join the other candidates on the platform in the meeting hall. The air is thick with incense and the exhalations of dozens of people crammed into the space, some more interested in the spectacle and others sending silent prayers to the gods that their families are passed over this time. In the decades and centuries since it first began, shortly after the gods shaped the world for the celestials, the quest has had more success than failure. Bodies are rarely recovered, so funeral rites are performed before the chosen depart, and celebrations of successful quests last an entire week, all work suspended so that the entire citizenry can dance and drink and revel.

The mage drones on and on through the chants. Crowley visibly yawns, earning a glare from his father. Aziraphale stands completely still, waiting anxiously. After the scriptures are read, it's time for the branding, the mark pressed into their forearms.

It turns gold on Aziraphale's arm, and on Crowley's. They have been chosen.

* * *

"Wait, so you actually _wanted _to be chosen for this godsforsaken suicide mission?"

"Well, yes," Aziraphale replies, puffing out breaths into the cool autumn air. They've been walking for days, taking turns at watch as the other sleeps, but Aziraphale already feels the ache of lying on the hard ground with only a thin bedroll for padding. At least his wings keep him warm at night. After seeing Crowley shiver as he kept an eye out for griffins and tree hags, he'd snuck his blankets into Crowley's pack the next morning. The demon had quietly used them the next night and shivered no longer.

"Oh, I get it—you want the change to 'make a difference' or 'prove them all wrong' or something, is that it? Fat chance, angel. We're just going to end up dragon barbeque like all the other chosen."

Aziraphale stops; it's as good a time as any to take a break, the late afternoon sun glowing at the horizon. They'll need to stop properly to camp soon.

"You may have already given up, but I haven't yet. Who knows, maybe we'll be the first ones in…" He thinks through the crumbling tome housing the quest records. "...seventy-five years to succeed."

Crowley groans, flopping onto a nearby log. "Wow, if that was your attempt at an inspirational speech, I'd hate to be inside your head on a bad day."

Aziraphale's cheeks color, and he pulls a wing close to inspect it for non-existent debris or bent feathers. Crowley continues his griping ("That dragon's going to have you for dinner and use me to pick its teeth afterwards! I don't want to be a toothpick!") and soon Aziraphale has heard more than enough. He briskly packs away his water skin and strides down the path, not caring if Crowley is following.

"Hey, angel, where're you going? Wait for me!" Crowley jogs down the path behind him, limbs splaying out from under the bulk of his thick tunic and pack like a marionette. When he catches up, Aziraphale ignores him.

"Are you really going to sulk the whole rest of the way to the mountains? Because I'm happy to entertain myself."

"Are you really going to _complain_ the rest of the way to the mountains?" Aziraphale shoots back, darting his gaze over to the demon to see his eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

"Look, I'm just trying to...I dunno. It's...this whole situation is hopeless," Crowley shrugs, suddenly uncertain as their eyes meet.

"Well, I don't think there's any point in being so afraid until we see what we're really up against. So let's just...agree to disagree." Aziraphale's voice is quiet, and they continue in silence.

* * *

They're both subdued for the next few days, only speaking to one another when necessary to change watch or choose a campsite or decide who will fetch wood. Aziraphale's brand is itchy, and it glows in the firelight when he rolls up his sleeves after supper (rabbit and potatoes foraged from the garden of an abandoned farmhouse).

His wings are also starting to itch, after a few weeks of neglect. As they lounge by the fire, Crowley hacking at a branch with his pocket knife in an attempt to whittle something or other, Aziraphale pulls his right wing onto his lap and begins to card his fingers through the feathers, starting at the primary coverts. It's always hard to tell dirt from the pattern of soft brown speckles across the otherwise crisp eggshell color; during grooming sessions, his brothers often accidentally pulled at a spot in error, only to find it was in fact part of a feather.

He struggles to reach his lesser secondary coverts, closer to his shoulder, until Crowley clears his throat and puts down his whittling. "D'you, urhm, want some help?"

"Really? Oh, that would be marvelous, thank you!" Aziraphale gives him a surprised, relieved grin and pats the log next to him in invitation.

Crowley's clever fingers sweep back over his primary coverts, finding a few briars and bends that Aziraphale had missed, before working in towards his shoulder. Aziraphale relaxes into the touch, the first physical contact he's had in ages easing his muscles and sending a tingle over his scalp.

Drugged by the heat of the fire and the slow petting of this wings, he doesn't think before he blurts out, "You're quite good at this, you know, despite…" But then his brain catches up when Crowley's hand stops, and he realizes what he's said. "Apologies, I didn't mean—"

"'S all right, angel." He doesn't meet Aziraphale's eyes. "I'm used to it, by now. Kind of have to be."

"So you...haven't gotten any new information from the mage?" Crowley doesn't reply at first, and Aziraphale opens his mouth to apologize again when the demon speaks.

"Not since the last time you and I spoke, I think. They just told me again that some celestials take longer than others. No one's taken this long though, so I've stopped trying. You get enough broken arms and sprained ankles from diving off the town perch and you realize it's out of your hands, you know?"

"Oh Crowley, I'm so sorry." He lays a hand over the demon's where it's buried in his feathers. "It's truly generous of you to help me with this. I wouldn't be able to do it without you." He offers a soft, sad smile.

* * *

A week later, they can see the mountains, a purplish smudge at the horizon, and then another week later, they've reached the craggy foothills.

They camp longer here, foraging and hunting and smoking food for the long, difficult trek ahead. It's late fall, and if they're lucky, snow will hold off for another several months, but game and vegetation are scarce on the steep, rocky slopes of the mountain range. Aziraphale performs a simple expansion sigil to make extra space in his pack for their larger food supply, as well as some dry kindling for starting fires. If pressed, he can conjure one, but it's not his forte and takes a lot of energy that can't be wasted...for after they climb the many miles to the summit, the dragon awaits.

Their luck with the weather holds until they're about halfway up, and then a terrific snowstorm descends. The temperature plummets and even Aziraphale's sharp eyes can't make out anything in the dense white cover. So when Crowley finds a small cave, they clamber half-frozen into the shelter to wait out the worst of the storm.

The cave has a smudge of soot on the floor near the center, and Crowley finds markings carved into one of the walls: names of past travelers. But these slopes are uninhabited, so the names must belong to...

"Other chosen. So many…" Crowley reads a few of the names, but the sounds are unfamiliar on his tongue. He looks to Aziraphale, who's busy scrounging for dried meat and the last few mushrooms to make stew. "Is it good or bad that we ended up here too?"

"Neither, I should think. It's simply ineffable."

"Ineffable? So, all of this is fate then? Is that why you aren't worried?" But when Aziraphale meets his gaze, he notices the dark circles and weariness written on the angel's face. The journey is taking its toll on both of them.

"Even if I was," the angel replies, stumbling to the mouth of the cave to fill the pot with snow to melt, "And I'm not saying I am, but if I _was_...what good would it do now?" He sets the pot over the fire and adds the handful of mushrooms. "It's not like we can turn back."

"No, I suppose not." Crowley plops down beside him, wincing at the soreness in his legs. "At least we're not alone. I don't think I could do this by myself."

"Me either. If nothing else...I'm glad you're here with me."

That night, the wind changes direction and blows out their fire. Aziraphale prepares to sleep sitting up, unconcerned about threats approaching from the maelstrom. Crowley beds down near the embers, as far from the draft as he can get, but trembles wrack his body as it tries to warm itself against the chill.

"Crowley," Aziraphale whispers, seeing the demon's yellow eyes flash in the eerie brightness from the storm outside, "come here. Come and get warm."

The demon only hesitates for a moment before clambering up to sit beside him, wrapped in the blankets and now Aziraphale's wings, which fold around them to block the worst of the wind. With only a little hesitation, Aziraphale wraps an arm around Crowley's shoulders. The demon leans into the touch, and they sleep, exhausted.

* * *

At the top of the mountain, they collapse, sighing with relief at the flat terrain that doesn't slip out from underneath them into rubble. Aziraphale take a drink from his waterskin while Crowley rubs the tight muscles of his calves.

When they've rested as long as they dare, Aziraphale pulls their swords from the pack. Normally weapon of this grandeur and craftsmanship would cost more than most families made in half a year, but such weapons are a gift to the chosen, in honor of their toil and sacrifice to appease the gods.

Crowley rummages around in his own pack and pulls out a whittled wooden knife, finally complete. He looks inordinately pleased as he sticks it down his boot.

"What exactly is that for?" Aziraphale asks.

"What d'you mean, what is it for? If everything goes to shit, it's good to have a backup!"

"Crowley, we're fighting a dragon. That knife is made of wood."

"Hey, don't judge the knife. Not like I can fly on out of there if things get hairy, can I?"

"I suppose not. It's getting late, we should go if we want to finish this before it gets dark."

They give themselves one last quick inspection, buckling the straps of what little armor they had carried all this way and setting their packs aside to collect later, if there is one.

Then, the angel and the demon nod to each other, draw their swords, and Aziraphale shouts the sacred words to summon the beast.

* * *

Crowley darts to and fro behind outcroppings, dodging the sizzle and burn of the dragon's fiery breath. "There's a weak spot up behind its wing, can you get to it?" he shouts, leaving the safety of his hiding place when the angel shouts back that he'll try. The demon waves his arms, brandishing his sword in big movements to draw the dragons attention, as Aziraphale alights into the air on the thermals rising from smoldering craters left by the dragon.

Aziraphale has almost reached the spot, his sword at the ready, when a flash of silver darts through the air, and he realizes it's Crowley's weapon, careening over the cliff edge. He looks down in time to see the demon reach for the wooden knife in his boot, but it—and Crowley's hand—are engulfed in flame.

The demon screams, and Aziraphale dives towards him without thinking, only to feel the crunch of the delicate bones in his wing as the dragon pivots. He's thrown to the ground, the shrieks of the monster rattling his eardrums as the beast leaves Crowley for this new prey.

Aziraphale stumbles to his feet in blinding agony from his injured wing, and he may have blacked out for a moment. When his vision clears, he's below the dragon's belly and his sword is stabbing into the soft flesh under an arm.

Crowley is running towards him and he grins in relief that they've done it, they're going to survive and go home and celebrate. The grin is still on his face as the dragon's body collapses over the cliff, dragging Aziraphale with it, and he has just enough time to see the horror on his friend's face before he, too goes over the cliff, useless wings fluttering behind him.

"No!" Crowley shouts, running as fast as his weary legs will take him, ignoring the ruin of his hand as he grips the dusty stone and watches Aziraphale fall, eyes closed in resignation at his fate. At this height, with only one working wing, there's nothing to be done.

A silent prayer to the gods for a just judgment, and then Crowley steps back a few paces, breathes out, sprints to the edge, and dives. He can't let Aziraphale die alone, and he won't go back home alone either.

Aziraphale opens his eyes to see Crowley falling towards him, and the wind swallows his sorrowful cry, but then...oh, then, there's darkness and movement and Crowley is _flying_, on beautiful, ebony wings tucked back to ride the air, and he's grabbing Aziraphale's wrist with his good hand and pulling away from the ground and the cliff to land in a rough tumble that knocks the air from them both.

When he can move, and think, and speak, Crowley asks, "Angel, are you all right?" and Aziraphale nearly topples him over in a relieved hug before pulling away to gape at the demon's wings.

"Crowley...you have wings! And they're absolutely gorgeous!" Up close, under the dirt, there's a rusty pattern at their tips when the feathers catch the light a certain way.

"I know!" The demon laughs and Aziraphale joins in, and they're holding each other and shaking and crying in relief that they've done it, the dragon is dead and they're still breathing, still alive.

"Here," Crowley says, once he's composed himself and tended to his own mangled hand, "let me fix yours." His eyes glow a golden, molten yellow-orange as he reaches to the newfound well of power within himself and sends it out to Aziraphale's wing where it sags against him.

"Thank you, I—" He stops, a strange look on his face, and Crowley's about to ask what's wrong when the angel's soft, warm mouth is suddenly pressed against his, and he returns the kiss in kind, and for several minutes they breathe the same air and hold each other close, finally pulling away to lean in and rest their foreheads together, overwhelmed.

"I've been waiting to do that for so long. I wanted to say something, but there didn't ever seem to be time, and…" Aziraphale trails off, looking up nervously at Crowley, who leans back in to render him breathless again.

* * *

When the angel and the demon don't return home in the spring, their people mourn them and make ceremonial offerings to the gods.

In the foothills on the far side of the mountain range, smoke coils into the air from the chimney of a cabin, and the sound of wings fills the air.


	4. Day 4: A Discovery on Angellus

_Interplanetary Sector Σ6, Regional Location 75.511.3254 - Angellus  
STATUS: Unsurveyed - INHABITANTS: None - ATMOSPHERE: 22% oxygen_

Crowley fiddles with the touchpad on his suit sleeve, adjusting the oxygen levels and air pressure to compensate for the atmospheric difference before the airlock opens with a hiss. He and Newt step out carefully, scanning their surroundings quickly even though their preliminary scans have shown no life forms, water sources, or other signs of habitation.

Angellus is dusty, cratered, and barren, like the surface of Gaia's moon. The ruins that dot its surface are buried beneath eons of silt, blown by the thin winds to fill buildings to their roofs and beyond.

Once, the Seraphim lived here in magnificent palaces, surrounded by lush, verdant gardens that fed on the warmth of the sun and spilled the scent of honeysuckle into the air. Once, the echoes of celestial harmonies could be heard in the marble halls as the Seraphs worshipped their deity and crafted existence in Zir's image. Once, there was life and warmth and color on this planet. But that was long, long ago, before terrestrials had left Gaia to venture out into the universe, to learn of and befriend and breed with its many species.

Now, Crowley and Newt crunch over brittle, fossilized remnants of those beings and places, and all else is still.

All else, except the quiet whisper of sentience that had somehow reached out beyond the planet, calling _I am here, I am here_ from beneath, waiting.

* * *

They follow the blips of the touchpad to discover an immense structure, still seemingly intact but entrenched a dune of fine, powder-white sand, its intricate spires reaching towards the sky like fingers of an outstretched arm.

Whatever has sent the signal that led them here, on this research mission, it's inside this place.

Newt and Crowley take turns digging where they guess the door might be, and soon they're hacking away at the petrified wood. It finally gives way, too dry to protest further, and they stumble into an arch-filled hall that seems to stretch for miles. Their headlamps barely illuminate the dark, but in the murk they can make out the basic structure: two corridors, one to either side, and at the end, an apse. As they walk, though, glowing orbs appear, floating along the walls and offering a warm, flickering light with the instability of devices long unused.

Newt sets up a comms link at the center of the room, where the four wings meet, to give a status update to their crew back at their mech-transport as Crowley investigates a faint sparkling that's caught the light of the orbs.

The massive mural makes his yellow, serpentine eyes widen. It's a host of Seraphim, gathered with arms and feathered wings raised in praise of their god, whose name is lost now and who is depicted as a glowing, golden orb, decorated in gold leaf that had snagged his attention even from a distance. He studies at the massive, elaborate artwork until Newt shouts to him.

In his mind, he hears the whisper _This way come I am here_ stronger from the left corridor. Newt stares at him when he says this, mumbling and stuttering as he looks through the notes in his touchpad and tablet, then shrugs and says it's as good a place to start as any.

The doors at the end of the corridor open with a pneumatic hiss, and then they're breathing stale air that's been locked away for a very long time. Orbs, as well as strips of lighting wires, flicker into life, and they're outside of an elevator of some kind. It, too, clicks and whirs and stutters to life, its cloudy transparent doors sliding back to admit them.

After five minutes, their touchpads let out warning chirps alerting them of comms failure. From here, they're on their own. Newt is sweating, but Crowley relishes the heat of the elevator capsule (he's always so _cold_; being cold-blooded is one of the many not-so-wonderful side effects of being half-demon).

When the elevator finally releases them, they're deep underground. The room they enter appears to have been some sort of foyer, with many doors and now-dry fountains and the barest remains of some sort of plant life that looks to have once been landscaped into orderly, cultivated plantings. Newt takes a small sample of one, causing the rest of the shrub-like plant to crackle into particles of dust that sends him into a coughing fit. Crowley rolls his eyes and slinks forward, making his way to the door at the far end of the room.

He passes flat, black-screened devices on pedestals (_Had they been some sort of comms or media device?_) near the door. But they don't respond to any gestures or touches, so he and Newt move on.

The rooms they're in now are more structured, perhaps the remains of laboratories or computational facilities. There are tables and equipment benches, with tools made of metal and glass that neither of them can identify. And more of the dark, quiet screens, some nearly the size of walls, are here, affixed to the glass walls of empty holding cells. Whatever was held here, even their remains have vanished with time.

_Almost almost I'm here please come_, the voice says to Crowley, and he follows it to a heavy, serious-looking door at the end of the room. But it, too, hisses open to admit them, and they're on a platform high above a dark tunnel that stretches beyond their sight above and below.

And there, at the center of the platform, floats a great glowing blue orb. Newt gapes, frozen, at the sight, but Crowley hears it whisper _Come please it's you_ and approaches, forgetting everything else. Streaks of light ebb and flow across the orb's surface, and it hums low, a frequency that sounds like a happy cat purring, as he nears.

"What _are_ you?" Crowley asks, reaching out a gloved hand slightly. The hair on his arms raises as the current near the orb sends goosebumps across his skin, like the approach of lighting during an electrical storm.

_Seraph seraph seraphim, _the orb chirps at him. _Aziraphale._

"Crowley, what are you doing, don't touch it!" Newt shouts at him, and he turns back to the man, who's looking at the orb like a bomb that's about to explode or a black hole that's trying to suck them into its void.

"Newt, you're not going to believe me when I tell you what it just told me."

"Are you sure—"

Then Crowley hears it again, only this time the voice isn't in his mind, it's loud and clear enough that Newt hears it too: _Seraph Aziraphale trapped help please_

Crowley raises his eyebrows at Newt, who looks as though he's going to vomit. "Did you just—am I—must be a hallucination…"

The half-demon just groans in impatience. "Right, a hallucination. That's how we got millions of credits in funding, found a ship and a crew, navigated here, and then found this. We're just in a nutrient tank right now, sleeping in our vitamins," he bites out sarcastically.

"When you put it that way...but there's no way this thing is a Seraph. They died out eons ago in the great war, and according to all of our records, that's not what they looked like."

"Well if they all died out, how did we get all the bloody records when no one's been to this planet since before the great war?"

They bicker back and forth for a few minutes, Newt getting more curt and Crowley becoming more infuriated and antsy, until Newt falls silent staring at the orb over Crowley's shoulder. The half-demon's words die in his throat as he turns to see that the orb, formerly an opaque, Gaia-sky blue, has cleared enough to let them see its inhabitant, curled as if in slumber within.

It's the most beautiful being Crowley has ever seen in his long, long life. White-blond ringlets frame its face, flowing ever-so-slightly in the current within the orb. Its body is softly rounded and plump, the fabric of its robe clinging to every curve. Wrapped around it in a loose cocoon are massive white wings.

"That _is_ what they looked like, Newt," Crowley hisses softly, not turning away from the sight of the being.

Before his companion can stop him, he takes off his glove, moves closer, and brushes his bare fingertips to the orb's surface, and everything vanishes into a howling, shrieking white nothingness.

* * *

When Crowley returns to consciousness, he sees Newt sprawled a dozen feet away, still knocked out but otherwise apparently unharmed. He wiggles his fingers and toes to stir the blood and restore feeling to his tingling limbs as he blinks his eyes open. When he sits up, black spots speckle his vision for a moment, then the world rights itself and he can see again.

And there, standing in the viscous remains of the orb, is the Seraph Aziraphale, beaming at him with a broad, grateful smile that crinkles the corners of their eyes. Its wings are folded demurely behind them, but they rustle as though affected by some unfelt current, perhaps a sense memory from the time spent in the orb.

They stare at each other as Crowley scrambles to his feet, his hand instinctively going to the weapon holster at his hip.

"I'm, er, Crowley. Hi, er, Aziraphale?" If what they know of Seraphs is true, this thing could kill him with a snap of their fingers or a nod of their head, and now, idiot that he is, he's set them free. _Wouldn't that just take the cake, to spend all this money and time on a ghost chase that actually finds the ghost, and oh look, it wants to murder us!_

The Seraph tilts its head at him in bemusement, then ponders for a moment. When they speak, their voice has a lilting accent similar to Crowley's, as though the being had come from the same territory on Gaia.

"Hello, Crowley. It's so good finally to meet you." They notice the tension in his posture and the hand ready to grip his gun. "I'm not going to hurt you. You have no idea how long I've waited for someone who could _hear_ me. All my brothers and sisters, gone, and here I was, left alone...It's such a relief to be out of there."

Is the Seraph..._babbling_ at him?

"Urkg…" Crowley replies, lost for words. A scuffling noise startles him, and he turns just in time to see Newt fire his gun at Aziraphale.

He shouts, heart sinking in surprisingly deep grief and fury and shock, and runs over to snatch the weapon from Newt's hands and chuck it over the edge of the platform.

But somehow, Aziraphale is unharmed, only looking down at a few faint smudges on their robe where the rounds should have fatally penetrated his physical form. "I suppose that was one benefit to being in that holding chamber, no one _shooting_ at me for just saying hello," the Seraph grumbles, swiping a hand over the fabric to wipe the stains away.

* * *

On their journey back to the mech-transport, Crowley can see the tears fall silently from Aziraphale's pale blue eyes at the eradication of their former home. He can't blame the Seraph, even though the grief is uncomfortable to witness. They had spent several long minutes kneeling and looking up at the mural in the apse after asking quietly for a moment alone. The soft echoes of a one-sided conversation reach Newt and Crowley even at a respectful distance.

At one point in their trek, the Seraph had gripped Crowley's hand in their own, and he'd tried to pull away until the forlorn look in Aziraphale's eyes needled its way into his chest and made him relent. Even through his glove, he could feel the heat of the being's hand and instantly felt warmer, despite the chill of the wind surrounding the trio.

"Where will we go?" the Seraph asks him, when they return to the ship, as they wait for the medics to finish running tests and the security team to finish their threat assessments. They still haven't let go of Crowley's hand, clinging to him amidst the din of questions and pokes and prods.

"Anywhere you like, angel. Anywhere you want to go."

* * *

Visual of what I imagine the orb to look like: /pin/419116309057642174/

Suggested soundtrack: "Cosmos" - George Kallis


	5. Day 5: Two Celestials and A Baby

"_Absolutely not_."

"Oh, c'mon, you saw her face. Is that a face that's going to cause any trouble?" Crowley whines at Aziraphale, gesturing back towards the cottage where Newt, Anathema, and their daughter wait.

"It's not just her I'm worried about. You seem awfully enthusiastic about this whole idea," Aziraphale says with a pout. "And what about my books? What if she uses them as a stool or breaks their bindings or—"

"Angel, it'll be fine, I promise. It's just for a month while they go visit Anathema's mum in America. You'll barely notice she's around." (_"We'd really feel more comfortable," Anathema had told Crowley, when they'd got down to business after pleasantries and tea, "having you and Aziraphale take care of Deliverance while we're away. I've read a few unsettling omens on the wind, and...I have this feeling that there's no place where she'll be safer.")_

"I think you're forgetting the last time we were godfathers, and how well that _didn't_ turn out. But...I suppose," the angel says, softening when he sees the earnest expression on Crowley's face, "If it's only for a few weeks—oof—"

The air is knocked from his lungs when Crowley leaps at him in a grateful hug. There's a slight electric crackle between them as the demon realizes what he's done and pulls away, clearing his throat and looking anywhere but at the angel. "Sorry. Er, let's go tell them, shall we?"

He turns and strides purposefully back into the cottage, leaving Aziraphale struck dumb on the lawn, wondering just what the heaven Crowley was getting them into.

* * *

Aziraphale is frankly quite surprised that Crowley doesn't make a fuss about all the toddler gear loaded into the backseat of his new car, along with said toddler in her car seat. He glances back at Deliverance (whose full name followed the family tradition: Deliverance Tenacity Device-Pulsifer) in the rear view mirror as they make their way onto the main road, at a speed that's a bit slower than Crowley's usual breakneck pedal-pushing.

They'd both lived in close proximity to Warlock's family in the years before the Apocalypse-that-wasn't, but the angel had spent most of his time as Brother Francis puttering around out in the gardens, doing his best to tend to the plants enough to not risk Crowley's (or rather, Nanny's) wrath. (_"You're letting them take advantage of you, look at that droopy one there!" "It's just had been hot lately, the poor thing can't help it!"_) The demon nursemaid had been the one to care for Warlock day in and day out, making sure he was fed and clothed and educated on the ways of the Deceiver's plans to dominate all of creation.

Of course, children were a wonder and a delight and a miracle of the Lord, but a _child_… Her wide hazel eyes met his in the mirror with a curiously penetrating gaze that unnerved him.

"Do they always...stare like that?" he asked Crowley, but the demon looked back at the girl and shrugged.

"Sometimes. The world's a scary place when you're new to it. You remember that time, right after the Garden, when you first went to a city? Tons of people everywhere, all that yelling and dust and chaos? 'S kind of like that when you're a young human."

"Well, it's creepy."

"Aww, did the tiny defenseless human look at the big strong angel all funny?" Crowley says, mocking him with a sharp-toothed smirk, stopping at a traffic light for the first time Aziraphale can remember in a very long time.

"I don't like it."

"You'll get used to it. Besides, we're almost home."

Aziraphale turns to look out the window. He's pouting, but can't stop the flutter that kicks through him. _Home. Our home. Where we live together._ Even after a few years, his delight at cohabitating with his best friend in the entire universe is irrepressible. He hides the small grin that sneaks through. Crowley will tease him for sure if he sees.

* * *

They're all fine until the first night, when Deliverance realizes that her day away from Mummy and Daddy is more than just a fun day out with her godparents and now it's dark and scary in the new place full of her toys and books.

"No, don't _want _bed! Want Mummy! Want Daaaaaaddy," she wails, small face red and tear-streaked when Aziraphale tries to herd her into the new room they've added to the house for her.

"Don't you worry, they'll be back soon, they've just gone to see Grandma in America. In the meantime, Uncle Crowley and I will look after you," Aziraphale tells her, wiping the tears from her face with a cool, light touch of grace as he tries to hoist her up into his arms.

But she squirms and thrashed until he has to put her down or drop her. "Nooooo, want MUMMY!" The distraught sounds turn to choking sobs as she rejects his offers to watch telly or read a book before bed, and Aziraphale has no idea what to do other than pat her back gently as he waits for Crowley to return with groceries. (_"Crowley, we can't feed her conjured food—she needs nutrients, real ones."_)

Deliverance is still wailing and sobbing when the demon appears with a flutter of invisible wings, arms full of paper sacks from the health-food grocer Anathema had left on her list of resources for them and a befuddled look at the scene before him.

"Crowley, oh thank heavens! The poor thing won't stop crying for her mummy, and I've tried everything, but she's so upset a-and—"

"'S all right, angel, she's just tired. Lemme put these away—" An instant later, the bags and their contents vanish to the kitchen. "—and we'll get this sorted."

He crouches down next to Deliverance and quirks his head at her where she's lying on the rug. "Hello, Livy," he says calmly, and she hiccups, turning to eye him balefully from under her curtain of dark curly hair.

"'Lo, Crowy. I want Mummy."

"I know, dearest. She'll be back soon, but in the meantime, would you like a treat before bedtime? And then maybe Mr. Aziraphale can read you one of his bedtime stories? They're very good, you know," he says, leaning in as though he's telling her a secret.

Aziraphale wonders if Crowley has some sort of mesmerization powers from his demonic nature, a kinship to snakes that hypnotize their prey into acquiescence, because Deliverance sniffles a bit but says okay and wobbles to her feet. The angel pulls out his handkerchief and dries her face, and the three of them stroll to the kitchen, the girl holding Crowley's hand with her small, sticky fingers.

After a few spoonfuls of Devil's Food Chocolate ice cream, and a quick pass of grace to remove the remnants of the treat from her hair, face, and hands, she follows the angel and demon to the new guest room. (Crowley had conjured up the furniture earlier, but Aziraphale had expressly rejected his choice of decor, changing the black and purple color scheme to lavender and green and decorating everything with happy pictures of flowers and butterflies. They had both agreed, though, to add some of those glow-in-the-dark star stickers to the ceiling, which Crowley had happily rearranged to match one of the constellations he'd designed eons ago pre-Fall. Seeing it made Aziraphale's heart ache with a pang of long-present pity.)

"Ooh, this chair is quite comfortable, Crowley, thank you," the angel said as he settled into the new, generously padded armchair with a book of fairy tales (Anathema and Newt had both explicitly forbidden any Bible stories).

"'Nake, Uncle Crowy," Deliverance demands after the demon has tucked her into bed. "Pease."

Crowley obliges, and with a sibilant hiss transforms into his serpent form, a large black and copper snake that coils its way up the bedpost to coil on the duvet between her and Aziraphale, his tongue flicking out to taste the air. This alternate form still unnerved her parents on the occasions they encountered it, but Deliverance adored it. (Being raised by a witch and witchfinder, she loved all manner of slimy creatures and insects, as well as the typical fluffy variety of puppies, kitties, and rabbits.)

Aziraphale has found the story he'd been searching for, his favorite in _The Collier Junior Classics: Fairy Tales and Fables_. It was a strange, grim story, but it had a happy ending with plenty of repentance. Deliverance was soothed by the angel's soft, steady tone, her eyes drooping as he read:

"... a woman was standing beside her, who said, "Why art thou weeping, little Two-eyes?"... Then the wise woman said, "Wipe away thy tears, Two-eyes, and I will tell thee something to stop thee ever suffering from hunger again…"

* * *

They walked in St. James Park, where Deliverance attempted to feed the ducks but ended up mostly throwing the bits of bread onto her own feet, until Aziraphale miracled up a little breeze that wafted the lighter bits to the water, where it was eagerly devoured to the girl's delight. She toddled back and forth across the path, stopping to investigate and prod at flowers and rocks and bits of sticks, shrieking and babbling in her own language that even the two celestial beings couldn't decipher (it was, after all, _her _language). When she grew tired, she stood in place, arms outstretched to Crowley, until he hoisted her up to ride on his thin shoulders. "Hey, watch the wings up there," he mock-grumbled, and Livy giggled, kicking his collarbones.

The girl was still shy of Aziraphale, studying him skeptically when he tried to engage her the same way as Crowley did. "Kids can sense intent," Crowley told him one night, as they sipped nightcaps in front of the fire at home after Livy had been put to bed. "They can tell when you're trying too hard."

"That's terrifying," Aziraphale replied, swirling his wine (a lovely hundred-year old vintage he'd found on one of his trips to France). "And I'm an _angel_, aren't all children supposed to like angels?"

Crowley snorts into his own glass and gives him a grin. "You're an angel, but you're also just a bit of a bastard as well, don't deny it. You did try to convince me to off Adam to stop the Apocalypse. Maybe she can tell."

"I did _not_...oh, all right, but I didn't know what else to do. And neither did you! Besides, you're the one who's just a bit too nic—"

"Oy, what did I tell you!" the demon hisses. "I am not..._nice_, I'm an agent of darkness and mischief and, and whatever I want to be an agent of."

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. "No, Crowley. You're not _nice_ at all. In fact, you're so _demonic_ and _malicious_ you just sang 'The Itsy Bitsy Spider' to a three-year old to put her to bed."

"It's a song about spiders! And hopelessness!"

The angel shushes him, nodding to the door of Livy's room. "If you wake her, I'll make you sing it again, but with the hand gestures."

Crowley gives him a particularly rude hand gesture in response, earning himself a throw pillow to the face.

* * *

Another day, the demon wakes first in the morning and pads down the hall to peek in at Livy, who's snoring quietly, and then continues down the hall to Aziraphale's door. He raises a hand to knock but hesitates, then taps softly.

"Angel, you up?"

The door opens, and a very rumpled-looking Aziraphale peeks out at him with a yawn. The angel's hair is mussed, his silk pajamas wrinkled, and his wings are still fluffed. He looks like a confused owlet, and the sight does things to Crowley's poor shriveled heart.

"G'morning, Crowley. Is Livy up?"

They wander to the kitchen, where Aziraphale puts on the kettle and stretches. Crowley floats an apple over his outstretched hand and watches as its peel slowly unfurls in mid-air, one long red spiral that he then chomps down greedily.

A chill, dense rain patters softly at the windows, and Aziraphale sighs as he takes his first sip of oolong. "It's so gloomy out. Today might be a good day to visit the botanic gardens, don't you think, my dear? You might find some new plants there."

"Hrk," Crowley says, still not used to the endearment. "Ah, er, yes."

Later, they bundle Livy into her wellies and rain coat and head out. In the tropical plants building, the girl is transfixed by the massive palm trees with their long fronds. She reaches out a small hand to grab one, but Aziraphale stops her and reminds her of the "no touching" rule. She pouts and sulks over to Crowley, tugging on his suit jacket to be picked up and watching him with sullen eyes.

"Ah, they're so dramatic at that age, aren't they?" An older woman in a woolen jumper smiles kindly at the angel, nodding to the toddler. "She looks like a handful."

"Oh, er, well, yes. Is that...common, then?"

The look she gives him now is more knowing. "It's difficult at that age, to be in a new and strange home. It's wonderful of you and your partner to adopt her."

_Partner?_ His mouth drops open when he realizes that she's talking about_ Crowley_, that she thinks they're a couple, and that Livy is their adopted daughter. "Ah, there may be some confusion, she's not—we're not—" But the woman just pats his shoulder and gives him a wink.

"It's all right, deary, I've seen a lot in my day, and I think it's wonderful that you're finally able to be in love in the open. You take care of your little angel." She dodders off, leaving Aziraphale frozen in stunned silence.

"Everything all right, angel?" Crowley says, when he sees Aziraphale's shock.

"Yes, just...having a realization, that's all." _Just having a realization that even a perfect stranger can see how much I care for you, how much I lo—_ "Are we ready to move to the next building? Everyone all set? Let's continue on, then, shall we?" he babbles, suddenly leaping into motion and heading towards the exit.

"Cuckoo," Livy tells Crowley, and he tells her that yes, Mr. Aziraphale is acting rather odd indeed.

* * *

The rest of the month passes in a blur of cookie-baking experiments (dough ends up everywhere when Crowley loses control of the electric mixer), leaf scrapbooking (Aziraphale gives one of his unused, blank journals to the girl, and they paste in specimens from their walks and park visits), and bedtime fairy tales (Livy's favorite seems to be Peter Rabbit; she hops around like a rabbit for twenty minutes the next day).

Back at the cottage, a tanned Newt and a tearful Anathema greet their daughter, hugging her tightly and inspecting her for any visible damage. Crowley gestures and her bags float into the house, headed for the girl's room, while Aziraphale hands Newt her leaf book and the stuffed Peter Rabbit doll Crowley had given to her.

The house seems empty when they return, the door to Livy's room shut. (Relieved that their daughter had seemed to thrive in the angel and demon's care, they'd resolved to set up regular playdate weekends to get some time to themselves every now and then, so the room remained, tucked away in another dimension until needed).

Aziraphale sits in his armchair in the living room and eats a slice of chocolate torte for dinner, while Crowley gets his nourishment from a nice scotch. Out of the corner of his eye, the demon catches the angel watching him furtively several times during their meal, until finally he can't stand it and hisses, "Out with it, angel, you're twitching like one of thossse dancing bug thingss over there."

"I don't know what you mean," Aziraphale replies, wiping his mouth with his napkin and avoiding eye contact.

"You've been antsy for days. Are you missing Livy, mister 'children are unknowable enigmas'?"

"Well, yes, she's a dear and I've grown very fond of her, but…" Aziraphale sighs. "It's something someone said to me, when we were at the gardens…it's silly…"

Unbeknownst to the angel, Crowley overheard every word of that conversation, but he'd avoided bringing it up because of Aziraphale's reaction to the woman's comments. He waits, holding a breath he doesn't really need to take, and the silence hangs over them until finally, Aziraphale blurts out, "Iloveyou" and hides his face in his hands.

Crowley exhales in a rush, stunned. He blinks a few times, digesting what the angel had (_finally!_) outright admitted, then clambers over to kneel next to him. "Hey there, angel, it's all right…" Aziraphale looks up at him and he leans in to press an ever-so-soft kiss to the corner of the angel's mouth. "I love you too, have since forever, you know," he whispers.

"Really?" Aziraphale whispers back, eyes wide and terrified.

Crowley answers with another kiss.


	6. Day 6: Off To The Races

"Crowley, I was wondering...if it wouldn't be an imposition, that is, if you would, well—"

"Oh my Go- Sat- Somebody, angel, spit it out!" Crowley spat out impatiently, after listening to the angel stutter and stumble. (Although his embarrassed blush was quite appealing, but Crowley would rather have Hell after him again than say so to the angel. Not that the odd demon grunt didn't show up and poke around for a bit occasionally, but nobody important.)

"—would you teach me how to drive an automobile?" Aziraphale finally blurted out, looking up from his anxiously knotted hands to meet Crowley's eyes.

"Drive? What d'you want to learn how to drive for?" Of all the things he expected the angel to ask him for, driving lessons were not high up on the list. (Said list included a puppy, another trip to the Ritz, and some of those truffles he liked that Crowley had found one time. Actually no, Aziraphale seemed more of the cat type.)

"Oh, I don't know, I just thought, 'My, Crowley did seem to enjoy his Bentley, maybe I've been missing out,'" Aziraphale replies brightly, gesturing with an arm that knocked his cocoa across the table. He miracles up the mess, giving Crowley a sheepish smile. "We could make a day of it, take a trip out to the countryside. Haven't done that in ages."

"Since the Apocalypse-that-wasn't, you mean." The demon sighs. "I do miss that Bentley, what a grand old girl, hasn't been the same since Adam fixed her...all right, let me make a few calls, see if I can find something a little more your speed."

"Oh, we won't be taking yours? I thought…"

Crowley thinks of the Bentley, sitting on the curb outside of the bookshop in her pristine, ebony glory and shudders at the imagined sound of grinding gears. "I wouldn't do that to her. Don't worry, we'll find you a nice automatic to start out with."

The angel beams at him over his cocoa, his aura radiating blessed contentment that stings Crowley's eyes a bit, even behind his dark shades. "This is going to be quite fun! I'll consult the maps, see if there isn't someplace with a little roadside pub we could stop at…"

Crowley rests his head in his hand and watches the angel prattle on, babbling happily about potential destinations, with a small, private grin on his face.

"Is something the matter, my dear?" Aziraphale asks, breaking his reverie minutes later.

"What? No, just, ngk, thinking. Hrsk, got to be off, be back in a bit!" Crowley garbled out, utterly embarrassed to be caught staring at his favorite being in the universe, then vanishes in a fluttering of invisible wings.

* * *

Two days later, he pulls up to the curb of Aziraphale's new bookshop in a car that almost makes Dick Turpin look like a new-off-the-line sedan. The 1994 Volvo 850 GLT Estate has seen better days, and those were decades ago, before the crack in the windshield and the scrapes on the back driver's-side door, before even its odometer gave up and stopped counting the distance. But it drives reasonably well, and Crowley had only paid a bit of cash for it (conjured cash, but still; it was for the angel and he wanted to do things properly).

When Crowley barges into the bookshop, Aziraphale looks up where he's hunched over an illuminated manuscript with his magnifier. "Hello, my dear! I was just looking through this account of Saint John—oh, have you found a car? Is it here?"

"'S outside. You figure out where you want to go?" The echoes of a conversation in his Bentley long ago hang unmentioned between them.

"It's a bit far, but I was hoping we might visit this lovely little village, it's about an hour south…" The angel stands and stretches, then pads over to a map he's pinned up. Crowley sidles over and peers at it over his shoulder. "...and there's a bookshop there that sounds rather quaint."

He looks up at Crowley and blinks; their faces are inches from each other, and this close, Crowley can see the hint of green in Aziraphale's stunning blue eyes, a faint shade of aqua like deep, still waters in the tropical places the demon likes to visit when London is too cold to bear. "Crowley?" the angel says quietly, waiting, and if Crowley was human, his heart would be dancing a tarantella in his chest at the sound of his name.

But he's a demon, and a sub-par one at that, so he jerks away and saunters towards the door, hands shoved in his pockets in feigned nonchalance as he magics his dark glasses into place. "Sounds thrilling, let's go." He doesn't need to breathe, of course, but he exhales loudly as soon as he's outside, knees wobbly.

Aziraphale joins him outside in a moment, wearing a driving cap and gloves that make Crowley snort. But the angel is distracted by the clunker sitting on the curb a safe distance from the Bentley. "Is that..._my _car?" he exclaims, immediately enthralled by the Volvo. He circles the car, peering through the windows and wiggling happily as he points out the lovely silver color and how sturdy the vehicle looks.

"Well, you just going to look or are you going to get in?" Crowley says with a soft, not unkind smile, and the angel makes his way to the driver's side and slides in. Crowley looks up and says a quiet prayer begging to make it out of this escapade in one piece, then opens the passenger door and gets in.

Aziraphale already has his hands on the wheel and is inspecting the rearview mirror. "Does this need to be pointed at me, or at you?"

"Whoa there," Crowley says, adjusting the mirror to the proper angle. He shows Aziraphale how to set his side mirrors; one of them has to be manhandled into place but they get it straightened out.

"Okay, this is an automatic, not a manual, so you don't need to worry about shifting gears. Just worry about these three: park, reverse, and drive, okay?" The angel nods, so he moves on: "You have two pedals, don't mix them up. That one's the break, and that one makes it go. You want to ease on both, really gradual, or you'll drive us into the side of a building or something, got it?" The angel nods again, looking down his feet.

"Think you're ready, then?" Crowley asks, and Aziraphale looks up at him like a deer in headlights, suddenly realizing that he is actually going to drive. He swallows audibly, face pale. Without thinking, Crowley reaches out and places a hand on his, squeezing gently.

"C'mon angel, you've done much scarier things than this. You've already driven a scooter, remember?"

Still stunned, Aziraphale's eyes flick down to their hands, and Crowley pulls back as if scalded.

"But that was different, you know. I wasn't _really_ driving…"

"We don't have to do this if you don't want—" The car had only put him out a few hundred pounds of imaginary money—

—and then Aziraphale has yanked the car into gear, put his foot down, turned the wheel...and shot them straight for oncoming traffic.

* * *

When they reach the village, Crowley stumbles out of the car and wipes his face. The first few minutes of the drive had been, quite frankly, terrifying. He'd narrowly managed to jerk the wheel and point them out of harm's way, but getting out of London had proved a nightmare. A few more close calls later and he'd whisked them in an instant outside of the M5 and onto a graveled, narrow lane in the middle of nowhere.

He'd also realized something around that time and told Aziraphale that he'd didn't _have_ to drive fast. The angel had glanced at him, confused, until Crowley had pointed to the speedometer and explained that cars didn't inherently go at breakneck speed, he just preferred it that way. Aziraphale had sighed in relief and confessed that he didn't want to ask and declared his new top speed to be a much slower one.

After that, Aziraphale had settled into driving fairly well, mostly keeping the Volvo on the road and only occasionally panicking enough to require reassurance from Crowley. Although Crowley was feeling anxious enough from the initial minutes of near-death pandemonium, a feeling that was perhaps similar to how Aziraphale had felt during all those trips he'd clutched the door and prayed for salvation from Crowley's driving.

They eat a nice, long lunch at the pub, some sort of layered sandwich with lots of bacon (which Crowley chars black the way he likes after the barman leaves) and chips. Aziraphale finds the bookshop's selection lacking (_"All the first editions are ones I already own, but the shopkeeper did say he might be able to find me a few I've been looking for."_) but they discover a small duck pond nearby, and Crowley conjures up some birdseed to draw the birds closer as he and Aziraphale lounge on a wooden bench near the water. (Unlike the ones in St. James, these ducks seemed wholesome and innocent and therefore deserved something more than bog-standard bread.)

After he'd chucked the last of his birdseed in the water, Aziraphale glances back at his crumpled, aged Volvo and smiles, perfectly content. Crowley, splayed across the bench in his usual sprawl, watches him, a hint of grin on his face at the angel's joy.

"Crowley, d'you mind...that is, I would very much like to thank you…" The angel asks tentatively, looking now at him with a curious expression that Crowley can't read.

"The car, you mean? Naaah, it's fine, it's not much—" But the angel frowns slightly and cuts him off.

"No, I want to—oh, bugger it," he says, then leans over and kisses Crowley firmly.

Stunned, the demon doesn't move, and Aziraphale pulls back, blushing furiously and looking anywhere but at him.

"Oh dear, I'm sorry, I just—mmmph!" His words are muffled as Crowley regains consciousness and pulls him back down to him by the lapels, knocking his driving cap off and his own glasses askew as he presses his mouth to the angel's in reply.

Neither of them really has to breathe, but they've grown quite used to it, so eventually they part just slightly to gather themselves and stare at each other. "I've wanted to do that for ages, you know," Aziraphale says softly.

"Me too, you idiot," Crowley replies, extricating himself from the angel's weight and standing to offer Aziraphale his hand, grinning mischievously. "C'mon, let me show you the other fun part about having a car."


	7. Day 7: Your Soul, In Which I Find My Own

"Of course now that he's home from abroad, Master Crowley is the most eligible bachelor in the county, what with twenty thousand pounds plus his annual allowance. Pity he can't behave more like a gentleman though," Madame Elbert says in a conspiratorial tone, fluttering her fan at the group of middle-aged women gathered about her.

They watch as the gentleman in question struts around the dance hall, brooding and sulking as though this gathering, full of the creme of the region's society (that they themselves daresay rivals London's), is beneath him. He ignores the whispers and giggles of their daughters, decked out in their splendor in pastels that rival the dessert tray, and the glares of the other young men overshadowed by his wealth and mystery.

Since he returned from the continent, it's been party after ball after gala, as the society mothers throughout England trot out their eligible offspring like prize mares. And so far, not a single one has caught his eye or his attention for more than an instant—or, in the case of some of the finer specimens, an hour or two that would send their mothers into apoplexy if they knew what had occurred during those private moments. Some of his misdeeds have apparently been known, if what he hears the lords and ladies whisper about him is true. And most of it is.

The thought brings a small, wicked smirk to his face as he continues his rounds to avoid any particularly ambitious women thrusting yet another handsome-enough daughter his way tonight.

* * *

Crowley hadn't been back to the estate since his father died, and the place is far too empty now. He has no siblings, no mother, and now no father, all alone in the massive house rattling around from room to room.

The servants greet him with surprise but warmth, and he nods to those he remembers, asking after their families. (He might be a cad, but he's still a gentleman.) He tries to stay out of their way as they frantically prepare the house for his unexpected arrival. Gradually, the dust cloths draped like shrouds over the marble statues, the furniture, the paintings, are removed; heavy drapes are pulled back to let in early-summer sunshine, and even more servants arrive to cook and dress and wait on him.

He's written to his friend and gambling associates Sir Hastur Lavista and Lord Ligur Offme, asking them to visit, but the former is on his honeymoon and the latter is too busy to leave the city until later in the year.

In his boredom, he peruses the library, the wine cellar, the stables, looking for something to distract him from the distinct sense of isolation and unease. He eats, sleeps, drinks, and sleeps some more, waiting for someone to break the monotony of the quiet country life.

After too many days trapped inside by great thunderstorms that pelted the windows with rain, Crowley decides to force himself out of bed and into an outfit suitable for outdoor rambling. He waves off the offer of assistance with his coiffure and runs a hand through his short red curls, giving himself a mock scowl in the mirror before making his way down the stairs, through the cavernous entrance hall, and out into the fresh air.

He's traversed the front lawns, strolling around the fish pond on the gravel of the carriage path, but there isn't much to see that he can't see from his carriage, so he decides to visit the one place on the grounds he's been actively avoiding since he returned home.

His mother's rose garden had been left to its own devices after his mother died in childbirth, along with Crowley's brother. After her death, he gardeners instinctively shied away from entering to tend the plants, claiming that her spirit could be seen wandering among the roses at night. (If Crowley's father had ever heard these superstitions, he had never acknowledged them, too ensconced in his grief at such a loss.)

The entrance to the rose garden never had a gate, but now his path is blocked by a similar obstacle: a wall of thorny brambles and massive, reedy weeds. The thorns shred his supple leather gloves as he tries to force them aside, and he makes little progress until he notices a small, rounded break in the overgrowth just out of reach. Wincing and inspecting his bleeding palms, he examines the opening and sees bright, warm sunlight filtering through the other side, so he crouches his thin frame and shuffles through.

Despite its state of neglect, the sight of the garden brings back memories of his mother, sitting on that bench there and reading poetry to him on spring evenings (_"Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art/Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,/And watching, with eternal lids apart,/Like nature's patient sleepless eremite…"_) or bringing her easel and paints out in the early morning to capture a likeness of a bloom's dew-fresh petals.

Lost in memories, the snap of a twig and rustles of greenery startles him. Wide-eyed, he seeks the sound of the noise, and the sight before him stuns him to his core.

There, in a beam of leaf-dappled sunlight, is a man. His cheeks are ruddy, and his white-blond curls are a stark contrast to his lightly tanned skin, freckled on his forearms where his sleeves are rolled above the elbow. He's murmuring something to the rosebush he's pruning, unaware that he's being watched as he smiles gently down at the plant and cuts away the ivy and weeds that choke the plant. He's beautiful, and Crowley can't look away.

He doesn't know how long he watches the man, but in an instant or an hour the man finally sees him and jumps, wide-eyed in surprise. "Oh, hello! I'm terribly sorry, I didn't notice you...Master Crowley?"

"Yes, er, hello there." He waves awkwardly to the man, sure his blush at being found out can be seen from the house if the heat in his cheeks is anything to go by.

The man makes his way over carefully through the brambles and weeds, and smiles at Crowley, making the edges of his forget-me-not-blue eyes crinkle with delight. "It's wonderful to meet you, Master Crowley. I'm Aziraphale, the new gardener. I hope you don't mind that I've been tidying up a bit in here, the head gardener said I wouldn't bother anyone since there aren't many visitors to this part of the grounds."

He extends a hand, and Crowley grips it for an instant before wincing, his forgotten scrapes stinging at the contact. "Oh bugger, those stupid thorns—"

"Oh, goodness, are you all right?" Aziraphale grasps Crowley's wrist and, before he can respond, gently slides the glove off to examine the angry, raised scratches, peering and brushing a finger against one to see if it's still bleeding.

"It's nothing, just lost a fight with the hedge—" But the gardener shakes his head, biting a lip in thought and shoving a hand into one of his pockets, digging around for a moment before pulling out a small tin and a roll of clean cotton bandage.

"I almost forgot I had these. Would you allow me to take the liberty of helping tidy these up a bit?" He still hasn't let go of Crowley, and Crowley still hasn't reckoned with the frisson of heat the contact on the delicate skin of his wrist is causing. "Really, it's no trouble."

Crowley opens his mouth to argue, to make an excuse and flee back to the house to clean and dress his palms, but he shuts it quickly as his brain catches up and realizes that he'd rather have the gorgeous gardener in close proximity a little longer. "That would be...thank you."

Aziraphale finally drops his wrist to lead him over to a bench that's mostly clear of debris. They sit side by side, and Crowley watches as the gardener tears off a bit of cloth to dab at the cuts before opening the small tin, revealing a yellow-green salve that stings a bit as he applies it to Crowley's hand.

"Sorry, sorry, I know it hurts a bit!" Aziraphale apologizes, but Crowley just shakes his head and watches him finish. He can't remember the last time touched him with this much care, and the rush of emotion at such contact (even from a stranger, albeit a stunningly beautiful one) makes him giddy.

"D'you always have a whole kit of supplies with you?" he asks. Honestly, he has no idea what kind of tools or supplies one might need as a gardener on a large estate—some kind of shears and shovels and things?

"Oh yes, you never know what you'll need during a day's work. I've cut my own hands enough times on a stubborn log or shrub to always carry a bandage or two with me. There, now the other one," Aziraphale says, putting out his hand for Crowley's. He takes his time with the wounds on this palm as well, securing the end of the bandage with a tight knot. "Would you like to put your gloves back on? They're a bit, well, shredded, but it might help keep the bandages in place."

"Oh, er, yes, I suppose I should. Wouldn't want the housekeepers to think I was trying to off myself again and missed or anything," he quips.

Aziraphale frowns as he helps Crowley with his gloves. "Pardon me for saying so, but that great house must be quite lonely. I'm terribly sorry about your father's passing."

Normally, Crowley would roll his eyes at such sentiment, but the gardener's earnestness is hard to ignore. "...Thank you. It's...taking some getting used to." He stands suddenly, making a show of adjusting his gloves and flexing his hands to test the bandages. "Well, I'd best leave you to your work."

"It was lovely to meet you, Master Crowley. I do hope you'll let me know if there's anything you need, anything at all."

Crowley nods, touches his hat in farewell, and makes his way back to the small opening. But when he glances back to see the gardener tidying up his supplies, he has a sudden, crazy idea: "Perhaps you could bring some flowers to the house tomorrow, brighten things up a bit? I'll trust you to pick the right ones, I don't know much about plants."

The gardener beams at him, and his heart flutters again at the sight. "Of course, Master Crowley. Tomorrow, then."

* * *

The next day, Aziraphale brings him a massive bouquet of delicate pink peonies. The next day, he delivers fresh lavender with lambs ear. The day after, roses.

Each day, he brings Crowley a new assortment from the estate's gardens and the countryside surrounding them, telling Crowley stories of the plants and the other estate workers and his life. His candor and enthusiasm are infinitely refreshing to Crowley after years of gossip and conniving and politics.

While he works in the garden, Crowley lounges on the bench and they continue their conversations. He's surprised to learn that the gardener is an avid reader, when he can find books and the time to read them, and gives Aziraphale to borrow any book in his collection, since they're only sitting gathering dust. The gardener politely declines until the day Crowley steers him into the library and shuts the door behind him. When he returns, Aziraphale has his nose stuck in one book of poetry and a stack of other volumes. He thanks Crowley until the man is blushing furiously and practically runs away to hide in his room until his heart slows to its normal rhythm.

More than his boring social visits to neighboring estates and the ever-irksome dances and balls, Crowley finds himself looking forward to his visits with Aziraphale. Beyond his handsome face, there's a lively mind and an eternally kind soul with more patience and love than Crowley has ever encountered.

And then, one night as he drifts off to sleep, thinking of their latest conversation on_ The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius_, he realizes that for the first time in a long time, his small, embittered heart doesn't ache quite so much. For the first time in a very long time, he's _happy_...and it's because of Aziraphale.

* * *

One evening, as the sky turns from blue to gold to indigo in the sky, they sit in the garden, drinking wine that Crowley had nicked from the kitchen and watching the fireflies begin to emerge and dot the shadows around them.

"Can I ask you something?" Crowley blurts out, before he can stop himself.

"Of course, Master Crowley. What is it?"

"How are you so...I dunno." He waves a hand in Aziraphale's direction in a vague gesture. "I've never met anyone like you before."

"I'm just a gardener," Aziraphale replies, avoiding Crowley's eyes until he grips the gardener's round chin in his hand and gently tilts his face towards him.

"You're not _just _a gardener. You're—you."

"I'm afraid I don't—I mean, that is," the gardener stutters, leaning into the touch ever so slightly as he stutters, a delicate flush appearing on his freckled cheeks that's strong enough for Crowley to see in the fading light.

And because he's used to getting what he wants, because he's used to being treated well because of his money, but he's not used to _this_, Crowley leans in until his mouth is only a breath away from the gardener's before he stops and asks quietly, "Can I kiss you?"

"Oh," Aziraphale inhales, eyes gazing at Crowley's mouth with desperate hunger. "Please."

Crowley doesn't think about the propriety, about his reputation, about his duty, or any of that rubbish. He pulls Aziraphale close and kisses him deep and firm and slow, and for the first time in a very long time, he feels love.


End file.
